


must be somewhere breathing

by couldaughter



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Captivity, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Now With More Comfort, POV Alternating, Team as Family, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-16 09:16:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21033905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couldaughter/pseuds/couldaughter
Summary: “He really cares about you,” said Liz, as if this was news. Alex guessed it might be for most of the world. “We were worried how we’d find you. Wanted him out of the way in case he brought the building down.”“Right,” said Alex. He’d paused for too long, then, and it was letting things catch up with him.





	1. blood remembers where to go

Alex didn’t know how long he’d been in the room.

He’d drifted in and out for a while, at first, the head injury leading to a concussion leading to the still-present, still-agonising ache at his temples. And then they started feeding him, sure, after the second attempt, but it was irregular, spaced out so that Alex never knew what was coming when the door opened - a meal tray or a kick to the gut.

Best guess, it was a little under a week. He couldn’t exactly check his watch. It was real dark where they had him, and far too bright where they took him, fluorescent lights buzzing right above.

The ropes were beginning to rub at his wrists again. When he’d first woken up, dizzy and sick with pain, he’d slipped the first set and made it to the corridor outside before a guard took him down.

That was when the other guard figured out that one of the legs came off.

So the second attempt took a little longer to execute. Long enough that he was feeling dizzy for reasons beside the blunt force trauma to the back of his head, his stomach clenching. It had been so long since SERE training, since the desert, that it took awhile to find a calm place inside his head that let him ignore his body screaming at him.

Guard rotations were still regular then, too. Second shift always took a smoke break. Alex could smell it when he came back down the corridor, drifting through the vent in the door.

That time he made it halfway to the stairs before someone noticed the open cell door. He didn’t get back to the cell for a while. They put him on the table, first.

He couldn’t think about that, though. Not until he was safe.

It happened rarely enough, he reflected, that he might manage to put it off forever.

So now, probably two days after that failed attempt, he was stuck staring at the opposite wall, trying not to think about the way his vision kept blurring in and out.

Michael, at least, was safely out of the way. Alex could still see the glint of the tranq gun when he closed his eyes, the way Michael’s eyes had widened when Alex pushed him onto the ground.

“Kinda forward, private,” he’d said, low and rough, while Alex scanned the perimeter.

Muffled shouting echoed down the corridor outside the cell. Alex rolled over on the bare cot and shut his eyes. It did, at least, help with the sick feeling at the back of his throat. His head hurt. 

Odd dreams drifted through while he slept. Liz reached out with distorted fingers, touching his throat where the pulse had stopped. _What’s your pain level?_ The airstream grew legs and walked off Foster’s Ranch before Alex could have it towed. The sound of metal groaning as it stretched and tore.

He opened his eyes, blinking, to find the cell door off its hinges. A familiar shape filled the doorway, earrings glinting in the light.

Not too familiar, though.

“Oh,” he rasped. His heart wasn’t sure what to do. “Took you long enough.”

Isobel narrowed her eyes. She blurred oddly as Alex tried to sit up, wounds old and new complaining loudly. He clenched his teeth.

“Well, my brother seems to think you’re worth keeping alive,” she replied, after a moment. She raised an eyebrow. “You can certainly take a beating.”

Alex snorted, his ribs a bonfire. “You have no idea.” With a distant understanding that he would regret it at some uncertain point in the future, he pushed himself until his remaining foot touched the floor. It was cold and rough, as it had been since he arrived. His leg was bruised to hell and back beneath the worn fabric of his track pants. “You happen to find a spare leg hanging around? Yea high, sporty stripe up the back? Oh, or a granola bar. The food here is contracted with Delta airlines.” 

Isobel dug a granola bar out of her cargo pants with an apologetic look. “Sorry, no dice on the leg. I have a great line in blackouts and repressed memories, not so much on the physical trauma.”

“Can’t win ‘em all,” said Alex with a sigh. He took a bite of granola bar. Talking felt weirder with every word. “Give me a hand up?” 

He took Isobel’s hand and let her pull his arm over her shoulder, feeling something like gratitude at the weight of her other hand on his hip.

The cell looked different with the fluorescent lights of the corridor washing in through the open door. Larger, somehow, and grimier, and unbearable. Alex shut his eyes and let Isobel pull him out.

He kept them shut for a little while, until dizziness overwhelmed him.

They were about halfway to the stairwell when Isobel came to a sudden stop, gaze distant.

“Liz found your leg,” she said, after a moment. _Right, _Alex thought. _Psychic. _“They want us to meet them downstairs.”

“Uh, can they not bring the leg up first?” Alex asked, in what he hoped was a reasonable tone. “Kind of a deal breaker on the stairs, there. I’m not sliding down them on my ass, I’m an adult.”

Isobel gave him a speculative look. 

“I’m also, and I can’t overstate this enough, in so much fucking pain,” he said, still level. “It’s agonising.”

He was still only distantly aware of the fact, but it was getting harder to ignore the further they walked.

“Fine, fine,” said Isobel. Alex could’ve sworn he heard her say _buzzkill_, but her mouth didn’t move.

Fucking alien mind powers. The world could miss him with that shit, honestly.

Liz took the stairs two at a time, leg clamped under her arm and face determined.

“Alex!” She cried, brown eyes wide and shining with unshed tears. 

“Drama queen,” said Alex. “Help me with the leg?” 

Liz had helped him with it only once before, when he got dead drunk at the Pony and she drove him home at 3am. That time she’d been removing it, but putting it on sober would be a lot easier, in theory.

The liner badly needed a wash. Alex winced at the bloodstains.

Liz looked at him again, an assessing gaze she’d developed when they were around seven. He’d never been able to get anything past her.

It was why he’d always avoided talking to her about Kyle, back in senior year. No point rocking the boat.

“Bad, huh?” She said, quietly, as she helped push the pin into place with a sharp click. 

“Yeah,” said Alex. Tears threatened to fall, sudden and unexpected. “I’m, uh, not thinking about it right now. I’ll update you when I feel things again.”

“_That’s _not a hugely concerning statement from my best friend,” said Liz. She stood up, brushing her knees off. “With an incredible track record of good decisions and self-care.”

Alex shrugged. It pulled at a patchwork of bruises. “I’ve had worse.”

“You were on your own,” Liz replied, achingly honest as usual. “Keep in mind, Manes - we’re gonna be bugging you until we’re all old and grey. Or old and green, I don’t know, whatever aliens do when they get old.”

Alex deliberately didn’t think about the very few older aliens he’d seen. His head had started to pound again, harsh behind his eyes.

He stood up, testing his weight. “Thanks, Liz,” he said, low. “I can always count on you.”

Liz smiled in the way she always did when she was about to cry. 

“Who all is here, anyway?” Alex asked, the change in direction deliberate. Isobel had scouted ahead, heading downstairs to meet with Max. He and Liz limped that way, Alex still moving much more slowly than he’d prefer in enemy territory.

“Me, Iz, Max,” Liz said, ticking names off on her fingers. “Maria’s the getaway driver. Kyle is ready in the backseat with half a hospital ward. Michael –”

She broke off. Alex glanced at her, her mouth drawn down at the corners.

“Michael what?” He asked. He had an inkling that it had something to do with the ongoing sound of metal tearing itself to shreds.

“He was, uh, not very happy when you got taken,” said Liz. She took the first step downstairs carefully, watching as Alex gripped the handrail with white knuckles. His joints sent tiny thrills of pain up his spine with every step.

He couldn’t find anything to say in response. He could almost see it, could remember the look on Michael’s face as yellow dust spread through the air between them. As Alex felt his arm get wrenched out of its socket, and his head made contact with the side of a van.

Empty and full, all at once.

“He really cares about you,” said Liz, as if this was news. Alex guessed it might be for most of the world. “We were worried how we’d find you. Wanted him out of the way in case he brought the building down.”

“Right,” said Alex. He’d paused for too long, then, and it was letting things catch up with him. He stumbled on the final step down, had to catch himself on the wall and felt a spike of pain in his wrist. Liz put a hand on his shoulder, slim and familiar enough not to flinch away.

Isobel met them at the doorway. “We’re guessing this room won’t be fun for you,” she said, addressing Alex. “You can stay out here.”

Alex looked past her, at the washed out off-white walls and the examination table. His stomach dropped. “Yeah,” he said, mouth dry, heart hammering. “I’m good out here.”

So he leaned up against the wall and let Max, Isobel and Liz go through the research cabinets and the single hard drive on their own.

Absently, he noticed his hands start to shake as he slid down to sit on the floor. It was a lot more comfortable, put less weight on his leg. That was definitely the only reason he was down there.

He finished his granola bar, and therefore ran out of purposeful activities.

He closed his eyes and drifted. 

The sound of boots clattering down the stairs roused him from a concussed daze. He snapped to full alert, felt his head crack back against the wall.

“_Fuck_,” he hissed, raising a hand to run through his hair. It came away clear of blood, which was probably the best luck he’d had all week.

“Alex,” said Michael. 

“Oh,” said Alex. He tilted his head until he could meet Michael’s eyes, far up above him. Michael was wearing cowboy boots over skinny jeans and a USAF sweatshirt that had gone missing from Alex’s luggage five years before. A chance layover in Houston.

He was probably the most beautiful thing Alex had ever seen. He smiled.

“What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” Alex asked, still smiling. Michael crouched down in front of him, the motion choppy to Alex’s eyes. The concussion was definitely getting its second wind.

There was a hand on Alex’s face. He blinked. Michael’s eyes were hazel and very, very close.

“Thought I’d try finding a handsome guy,” said Michael, voice quiet. “Looks like I got lucky.” He leaned in, pressing his forehead against Alex’s. “Don’t fuckin’ do this shit, Alex. I can’t ruin my street cred any worse than I did this week.”

“Can’t imagine you having any cred to start with, Guerin,” said Alex, muffled by Michael’s stolen sweatshirt.

“Harsh,” said Michael. A tear slid down his cheek.

Alex sighed. “My head really fucking hurts,” he whispered. 

“Yeah,” said Michael, choked. “I bet it does.”

“You okay?” Alex asked.

Michael blinked at him. “You kidding me with that, Manes? You look like you lost a fight with a 747.”

“Feels about right,” said Alex. “I’m serious, though.”

“I’m fine,” said Michael. “I’m good.” He gripped Alex’s hand, the one without visible damage to the fingernails, and took a ragged breath in.

They sat quietly for a while longer, Alex feeling his head grow heavier all the while. He could tell that getting up was going to be agony.

“We gotta go,” said Isobel, striding out of the examination room. “This place has a panic button, and someone pressed it. Incoming unfriendlies.”

“Great,” said Michael. “Absolutely classic.” He stood up. Alex made a sound, deep in his throat, and thought he might feel embarrassed about it after four or five full days of sleep.

Michael made a noise back and pulled him to his feet, arm over his shoulders. It was a little closer than it was with Isobel, Michael’s heartbeat buzzing through Alex’s chest.

When pressed later, Alex would swear he couldn’t remember the escape from the facility he’d been held in. The truth was that he mostly remembered Michael pulling him ever closer as they stumbled out, his body warm against him, familiar and safe.

The getaway van had the Crashdown logo on the side.

“Arturo’s really branching out,” Alex mumbled as Michael pulled him into the back and pushed him into Kyle’s waiting arms.

Liz grinned at him and climbed into the cab beside Maria, who looked stricken.

“It’s worse than it looks,” he said. “I’ve got seconds to live.”

“Fuck off,” she replied, more like herself, and pumped the gas.

Alex, to his shame, felt a spike of panic as the movement jarred his body-sized bruise. Kyle raised an eyebrow at him and took his wrist.

“Ow,” said Alex, flatly. 

Kyle made an apologetic noise, and let go after a few more seconds.

“What’s the prognosis,” Alex continued. He felt dizzy again, listing sideways into a soft surface. When the surface leaned back, Alex’s brain caught up to the fact that Michael was still there. “Huh,” he said, wondering.

“You’ll live,” said Kyle. “Long enough for all your injuries to heal so we can kick your ass for getting kidnapped at the age of twenty-eight.”

“Fine,” said Alex. 

“Oh, and you’re taking this oxy. Don’t ask me where I got it.”

Kyle wasn’t worth arguing with in doctor mode, Alex had learned. He took the oxy.

He closed his eyes, tucking his head beneath Michael’s chin. Michael’s hand, scarless and shivering, threaded through his hair. “Don’t let Max grope me in my sleep,” he said, muffled, into Michael’s chest. “I earned these bruises.”

“Weird flex, but okay,” said Michael. 

Maria groaned, turning briefly in her seat. “I _will_ turn this van around.”

Michael, in his infinite wisdom, started juggling the van’s collection of dashboard ornaments with his mind.

Alex drifted off against Michael’s side as Fred Flintstone waltzed with a hula girl. His dreams were unmemorable.


	2. i pinned those patterns in my coat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love a good h/c centric epilogue/coda with faint hints of pining and some good old fashioned snuggles? you've come to the right place!

Jim Valenti’s old hunting cabin, as it turned out, was not well adapted for someone recovering from serious physical trauma.

“Well this sucks,” said Alex, sat on the porch step. He’d stumbled going up them and jarred his still-healing knee badly enough that he’d actually flinched.

Michael was sat beside him, trying hard to focus less on the pain Alex basically radiated and more on the feeling of the fading sunshine on his face. 

“You’re tellin’ me,” he returned, elbows on his knees, legs stretched out towards the desert. “Maria’s got some kind of pool tourney going at the Pony this evening, I coulda cleaned up. Looking after your sorry ass is a poor second.”

He glanced at Alex, making sure the joke landed right. Alex, judged rightly, smirked.

They sat in silence for a while. Alex’s breath still rasped slightly, despite the three day stay in Roswell General. Kyle had put both feet down on that one, made enough of a fool of himself physically pushing Alex back into bed that Michael almost respected it.

Almost.

The sun dipped below the horizon, the night spreading like an oil slick up and out. Michael squinted up at the sky and wished, absently, the same way he had every night since the pods hatched.

Alex was watching him. He saw as he turned back, then pushed himself to his feet.

“Let’s get you on that couch, private,” he said, offering Alex a hand up. “Time’s a wasting.”

Alex took his hand, grip firm despite the bandaged fingertips. “If you drop me, your sister will kill you.”

“A strong threat,” said Michael, easing Alex to his feet. “I’d give it a nine for delivery and a six for consequences.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Only a six? Isobel will hear about this.”

“She could do a lot worse than kill me,” Michael pointed out. Alex gasped a little as he took his first step towards the house, joints doubtless stiff and aching from the long drive out of town. “Honestly, none of the options for murder are great. Except maybe Valenti.”

“He’d definitely wuss out,” Alex agreed. The one advantage of the cabin was the lack of a hallway before reaching the couch, Michael thought. They reached it in three steps after coming through the door, Alex collapsing onto it with a protracted groan. He removed his prosthetic in record time, throwing the liner into the washing basket from across the room before raising his arms in victory.

Michael would’ve made fun of him on principle, if he didn’t know just how few people Alex would let see him like this.

“Oh, absolutely he would,” he replied, belatedly. “Can you imagine? He’d get one cut in and get out the suture kit and the opioids.” He chose the overstuffed armchair for himself and swung his legs over the arm, feeling appropriately dramatic for the situation. Alex was beat to shit, still, so Michael was gonna take his joy when it came.

Alex snorted. “Don’t make me laugh, Guerin. My ribcage feels like John Hurt in _Alien_.”

“Wow, getting out the pop culture references,” said Michael, cheerfully. He threw Alex a pair of woollen socks out of Liz’s care-and-feeding backpack. “Must be feeling better.”

He did look better, to be fair. When Michael had first seen him, propped against the wall, pale as death and covered in bruises, his heart dropped to his feet. Of course, then the stupid motherfucker gave himself a double concussion with his startle reflex and Michael had been obligated to go cry all over him.

It was just the way things had to be.

Bandages peeked through at the neckline of his tshirt and the waistband of his track pants, both of them soft and worn from years of wear and tear. Michael didn’t think he’d seen Alex wear them since high school. 

“I’m still alive,” Alex said. Michael blinked, trying to remember what they’d been talking about. 

“You are,” he said, trying not to sound too emotional about it. It had been a really fucking bad week.

Alex had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, knees to his chest, curled up against the arm of the couch. He gestured with one hand still clutching the blanket.

“There’s still plenty of room over here, Guerin,” he said, oddly defiant. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“You’re real good at inviting a guy over, huh,” said Michael. He did get up though, did set himself down on the other couch cushion. He was willing to admit Alex didn’t exactly have to work hard to get Michael where he wanted. 

The couch was comfy in the way most ten-year-old couches were; soft and lumpy with the fabric worn down just enough to leave an interesting pattern on your ass.

“I do my best,” said Alex. His hair was much messier than usual, flattened on one side where he’d slept on it. He’d spent most of the hospital stay asleep, actually, whether natural or chemically induced. Waking up hadn’t been much fun for him.

Michael wavered. It would be very easy, actually, to stay sat upright, to turn on Alex’s tiny, shitty portable TV and watch tiny, shitty public access channels until he could reasonably pass out in the armchair.

Or, he reasoned, he could lean a little to the left and feel Alex, warm and alive, right beside him. The sound of his breathing, raspy as it was, still wasn’t quite convincing him of the reality of the situation.

“Incoming,” he said, quietly, before shifting a little. Alex shifted back, turning his head.

He smiled. “Roger that,” he said. The bruises on his face had faded, thanks in part to modern medicine and the rest to Max insisting on speeding up the healing process just a little.

It was why none of his bones were actually broken, by the time they made it to the hospital. Just bruised, and with the echo of fractures for the x-ray. Max had learnt his lesson from Michael’s hand – ask for permission, and leave some plausible deniability behind.

The way Alex moved with Michael always made his breath catch, just a little – they knew each other down to the bones in that way, knew just how much space to leave each other. He curved into the couch, let Michael take some of his weight and wrap a careful arm around his waist.

“Really thought you might be dead,” Michael whispered. “It doesn’t get any easier, huh?”

“No,” Alex murmured. “Guess it doesn’t.” He shifted again, pressed his cheek against Michael’s shoulder. “They won’t take me down that easy.”

“You say that,” said Michael. “But, y’know. Humans. You’re fragile.”

“You cry watching _Days of Our Lives_.” Alex was smiling, Michael could tell. Just a feeling, but one he’d count on.

“Isobel is a dirty liar,” he replied. “And, just so we’re clear, a dirty hypocrite, too.”

Alex huffed a laugh. “Whatever you say.” He yawned.

“Oooh, bedtime for brave soldiers,” said Michael. He started to pull away, thinking vaguely about pillows, before Alex grabbed him by the wrist.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

“Alright,” said Michael. He sat back, kicked off his shoes. Pressed a kiss into Alex’s hair, before he could think better of it. Alex curled his toes against Michael’s thigh.

Alex dropped off quick after that, breath even and heart slow. 

Michael followed a little while after, a gentle fall.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel like causing Alex physical pain for emotional gain should be on some kind of RNM author bingo card. 
> 
> Title from 'Patterns of Fairytales' by The National.
> 
> Find me on twitter/tumblr @dotsayers! I can also often be found on walks in the park or in the biscuit aisle at the supermarket.


End file.
